Celery Green Eyes and the Pride of District Four
by MyosotisAngel
Summary: "They say Finnick Odair loved his freedom more than he loved life. But he loved his family more than anything else." In the 74th Hunger Games, the District Four girl tells fellow tribute Peeta Mellark the story of her mentor. Slight AU. Peeta-centric.


**The story of Finnick as told by the District Four girl in the 74th Hunger Games. Heard by Peeta Mellark. Slight AU. Pairing: Slight Katniss/Peeta. Slightly Peeta-centric.**

We stick together even though she's from District Four and I'm from Twelve because we're the only two without anyone. Cato has Clove and Glimmer has Marvel, but neither of us brought our district partners to the group.

"He died in the bloodbath," she says, before I even wonder what happened to him. "Cato killed him with his sword."

I glance at Cato, who's going through the Cornucopia, wordlessly. Once again, I don't even have to ask. She just answers my silent question.

"We all have our reasons," she snaps. "I want to survive, and you...what _is_ your reason, loverboy?" Her eyes are the color of celery and they're angry right now. I vaguely remember telling my mother that my vegetables hated me when I was just six.

I hear a shout of laughter and look just in time to see Marvel turn away, pretending he wasn't listening to us. I don't see what's so funny; the nickname "loverboy" isn't all that creative. But, I guess there isn't really much to laugh about here.

When I look back at her, she's already gone, picking through the Cornucopia with everyone else. Or, rather, alone in a crowd of old friends.

(PAGE BREAK)

We wind up sticking together again.

The others are running ahead of us, laughing and arguing over who gets to kill the next tribute. Since neither of us are feeling particularly cheerful or competitive, we trail behind and don't say anything. But it feels wrong to me, to trust this girl as my ally and know nothing about her, not even her name.

Plus, I'm not a big fan of awkward silences. "So, what do they call you?" I ask, my voice light. "Or would you rather do the whole mysterious thing?"

"What?" She sounds awfully confused.

I sigh. "What's your name?"

"Tella," she mumbles. "Turetella Zabat."

"That's a mouthful," I remark, pushing a tree branch out of my face. "Glad my name isn't so long. I'm Peeta, by the way. Peeta Mellark." I extend a hand for her to shake, but she ignores it.

"I know who you are," she says, turning to look me straight in the eyes. "Everybody knows who you are."

I feel my cheeks start to burn under the intensity of her celery green eyes, and I'm almost grateful when Cato calls out, "You two make a camp for us here and we'll start hunting for any tributes nearby." Then he gives me a hard look and adds, "If you have any information about the other tributes—especially the Twelve girl—I'd love to hear it."

_Well, you won't,_ I think. Out loud, I simply say, "Okay. No problem," and look around, trying to figure out how to make up a campsite and keep Cato from catching Katniss. She's pretty smart, so she's probably long gone by now...

After a moment, I hear the four lunatics leave and the soft crunching of leaves as Tella approaches me. She doesn't even bother trying to make camp, just plops herself on to the ground and looks up at me. "Aren't you going to sit down?" she asks.

"They said to make camp," I reply, but I feel rather foolish as the words leave my lips.

She rolls her vegetable eyes and laughs at me. "Do you always do as your told?" she demands. "Or are you just that terrified of disobeying _them?_"

"I'm not scared of them," I say, feeling defensive. I'm pretty sure I don't like her or her scornful vegetables for eyes.

"Good. Then sit down, instead of wasting time preparing a camp they won't use." She pats the ground next to her, inviting me to join her on the ground.

I do, and for the first time, she smiles. "Why are you so irritable?" I can't help but ask. "You're from a Career district, right? Shouldn't you be enjoying this just as much as the rest of them?"

I can't say I've ever seen celery look sad before, but I guess I haven't seen much celery in my lifetime. Her eyes turn into storms and she gazes up at the piece of sky that peeks through the cover of trees. I'm good at reading people, and I can tell she's about to tell me something, a story of sorts, so I remain silent and wait for her to begin.

"Have you ever heard of Finnick Odair?" she asks. "The winner of the Sixty-fifth Hunger Games?"

"Of course," I say, surprised. "Everyone has."

She nods, silent for a moment, collecting her thoughts. "They say Finnick Odair loved his freedom more than he loved life," she begins. "But he loved his family more than anything else.

"He was born under terrible circumstances. In Career districts, where violence and greed are so very encouraged, there are a lot of crimes committed. Some unspeakable. And that's how he was born."

I can't say I'm anything less than shocked, though I keep my expression perfectly blank. In District Twelve, the worst crime anyone commits against another citizen is stealing. We would never do things like _that_ to each other. I don't even think most of my District would have the strength to try, anyway, they're so underfed.

"His mother was unable to love him," she continues. "But his two older sisters doted on him. And her husband, whom he called his father, loved him dearly and Finnick loved him back. Despite his mother's coldness, he grew up in a warm, happy, and wealthy home.

"Because he was so wealthy, his father could afford to pay for volunteers for his two older sisters and Finnick—"

"Pay for volunteers?" I repeat. "What do you mean?"

She shuts her eyes, as if blocking out a painful memory. "In District Four, the rich pay the poor to volunteer for their children if they ever get reaped," she says. "For instance, in the Odair family, they paid two girls and one boy to volunteer for Finnick and his sisters if their names were ever drawn. The volunteers attend Training school—once they're fourteen, of course—and the Odairs would give them enough money to feed they're families for a whole year. Get it?"

"No."

She sighs. "It's like tesserae, but there's less risk of getting chosen," she rephrases. "Does it makes sense now?"

I nod, and she opens her celery eyes. "That's how I got picked," she whispers. "My family used to be rich, but somehow we lost all our money and we were poor, so I had to become a volunteer."

I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything. We just sit there, no one saying a word, listening to the music of trees and wind and dead children screaming in our heads. After a little while, Tella starts the story again.

"Everyone wants to sponsor a winner," she says. "So that they can be the ones that brought in another year of victory to the district. Mr. Odair was no different, so when the boy who was Finnick's volunteer turned nineteen, he decided not to pick a volunteer that year, in order to save money and protect his honor. He figured that, since Finnick only had his name entered twice, there wasn't much of a risk of him getting picked. After all, Finnick wasn't even quite fourteen yet; his birthday was in a couple of weeks. He was sure his son was safe."

"He wasn't," I say, thinking of Primrose Everdeen.

"No," she agrees. "He wasn't. His name was, drawn, of course, and there was no one to volunteer for him."

I remember the terror I felt when my name was drawn, and the churning in my stomach when the call for volunteers was met by silence. Then I imagine that I was only thirteen and so very close to another birthday with gifts and a party. Vomit rises in my throat, and I swallow hard to keep it down.

"But everyone adored him," I say. "Why didn't anyone volunteer?"

"Love only goes so far," she says harshly. "Do you have any siblings?"

Yes, and neither of them volunteered for me. They didn't even visit me before I boarded the train to certain death.

"Exactly." Tella's looking at me and I swear she can read my mind. "So no one volunteered for him and into the Games he went. Without even one day in Training School to prepare him for what was to come."

"But he won," I point out. "He's remembered for being one of the most cold-blooded killers in recent years."

"Yeah, it apparently shocked the whole district. He had been very sweet and gentle before the Games. Somewhat quiet, though a little cocky, and preferring to spend his time alone at the docks or with his family than surrounded by people."

I never would have guessed. "So that's it, then. End of story."

"No."

She's staring up at the sky again. "When he won, he was asked to do something—something terrible—by President Snow. He refused, and by the time he came home, his father, whom he loved so much, was dead."

It seems even the trees know that this calls for silence. The cameras are certainly not on us anymore. The implication of what she just said—that President Snow was responsible for the death of a Victor's father—is treasonous. I suddenly feel scared for this Finnick Odair that I've never met and what punishment he'll have to endure for his tribute's words. If they don't punish her first.

"You don't have to finish the story," I plead. "Really; I don't need to know."

"But you asked me," she says softly. "So I have to finish."

When did I ask her about the story of Panem's heartthrob? I rack my brain, but I honestly don't remember. I let her finish anyway, and pray that the Capitol ignores this girl with celery green eyes and her stories of the pride of District Four.

"His mother and sisters were both told about what happened and why. His mother hated him for it right off and worked with the eldest sister's husband—she was married by then—to convince the two girls that their father's death was Finnick's fault. She told Finnick to do as the President demanded so that no one else would die. He agreed to, of course, because he loved his family and didn't want them to suffer. Then she left and took his sisters with her. They never spoke to him again and he has lived all alone, with his money and fame, in his big house on the hill ever since, still fulfilling Snow's demands in order to protect the ones he loves.

"That's why I'm not happy to be here."

"What?"

She faces me again and grins, celery laughing, enjoying my obvious confusion. "You don't understand?" she queries.

"A lot of things, actually" I say. "Wasn't he fourteen when he won?"

"His birthday was the day he was sent the trident in the arena," she explains. "He joked about how badly he wanted one during his interview. So some sap sent it to him."

I nod. "Okay. So what did Snow want him to do?"

Tella hesitates, then murmurs, so softly, I barely hear the word, "_Whore_." Vomit rises in my throat again, and it's harder to swallow it back this time.

"What does this have to do with you being here? Why you hate it?" I ask when I finally gain control of myself. "And how do you know all of this?"

"My mother was Finnick's eldest sister and I never met him until I volunteered." That was probably a really uncomfortable family reunion. "And that's why I hate being here. Because all these Games do is tear families apart and drive children to do horrible things. No one ever truly wins. And my uncle—my beautiful, adored, wealthy, charismatic uncle—is living proof of it."

There's nothing left for us to say, so the trees and the wind do all the speaking.

(PAGE BREAK)

We don't stick together that morning.

When the tracker-jacker nest falls, everyone scrambles around, trying to save themselves and not bothering to help anyone else. The only other person that crosses my mind is Katniss. When I run back to make sure that she was okay, I spot Tella on the ground. She's nearly gone already, but I can't bring myself to just pass her by. I hesitate and then go to her side, telling myself that Katniss is smart, that Katniss has already left anyway.

I know her death isn't an accident because there are tree roots wrapped around her ankles, holding her to the ground. Even as I watch, they begin to recede, as if telling me I could speak with her in privacy since she'd be dead soon anyway. I wonder if her uncle Finnick Odair is watching right now and if he can see right into her eyes like I can.

I've never known vegetables to look afraid, but the celery in her eyes are certainly terrified. Even so, she remains strong. "Go after her, loverboy," she whispers. "Win it with her."

It's impossible, there can only be one winner. But I can't help but think back to our conversation several days ago. _"No __**one**__ ever truly wins."_ But if there were _two_, not one, could we be truly happy?

"Tella," I say. But she's already gone. It's funny; her eyes seem to brown as life leaves them, just like the vegetables that died when I refused to eat them and tossed them aside instead.

And then I feel sad because I realize that I do like vegetables after all.

**So I know that was weird and didn't make much sense, but I typed it in like, an hour or two after I killed my brain studying for a Calculus test. I'll eventually go back and fix it, but I just wanted to post it and get it out of the way before it got deleted or something. Reviews and constructive criticism are very welcome!**

**Note: [Purple] Turetella is a type of seashell and Zabat is a Greek surname that means "dweller by the shallow water " (if Google is to be trusted). And about the District 3 boy, I just kind of assumed her didn't join them until later. He didn't fit with my story.**


End file.
